


Lights, Camera, Agitation

by Cocoplumb



Category: TharnType the Series (TV), บังเอิญรัก | Love by Chance (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Photographer, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Model, Past Abuse, alternative universe, photographer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21586339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cocoplumb/pseuds/Cocoplumb
Summary: Type is a model and his new photographer rubs him up in all the wrong ways.Or does he?
Relationships: Tharn Kirigun/Type (TharnType), Tharn/Type (Love by Chance)
Comments: 71
Kudos: 853





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For tharnstype@tumblr who requested model!type, photographer!tharn :)

Despite public assumptions, Type’s job isn’t exactly easy. 

The 5 AM wakeup calls, the strict workout regimes and the hours sitting around on shoots earning nothing but a numb ass. It’s not as glamorous as social stereotypes suggest, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

Type loves it though, and if he’s honest, he’s pretty good at it too. He’s good looking, he moves well in front of the camera, and he’s mastered the art of knowing what the photographer wants before they even ask for it. He’s made quite a name for himself since signing with his agency two years ago and has garnered an extensive collection of editorials and campaigns in his relatively short career. He’s the hot new thing, his manager proclaimed. Everyone wants him, designers, directors, photographer's. Everyone but the guy who stood ten feet in front of him. 

Tall, dark, and infuriating. 

He’s meant to be some hot-shot prodigy from America who flew in especially. He did introduce himself but Type is terrible at remembering names irrelevant to his life. What he does know is that America must be deluded to call this guy big news. All he’s done so far is take barely any pictures, waste over an hour of Type’s life and get on his last nerve. 

He hears the photographer sigh for the third time in as many minutes and resists the increasing urge to snarl at the asshole. He learned to rein in his temper a long time ago. But the need to punch someone in the face, or at the very least break their stupidly expensive camera lens, occasionally flares up. Especially when he’s dressed like a complete idiot in cropped pants, a turtleneck and a cartoon style dress shirt in the height of summer. He’s lucky they have about ten fans set up around him. 

Type counts to five in his head, takes a long deep breath and unclenches his fists. He should try a different pose, something more masculine and assertive. Maybe throw in a classic ‘murder’ look too, so the photographer knows his place. 

Before he can switch to any new position, the photographer pulls away from his camera and shakes is head. “This isn’t working,” he proclaims, folding his arms. He chews on his thumb nail and sucks on his lip as he looks Type up and down like he’s a piece of meat. Silence falls around the set for several long minutes of scrutiny until the photographer sighs once again. “Can I get the hairstylist on set?” he asks.

If Type weren’t so used to being stared at, it _is_ how he makes a living after all, he’d be well within his rights to break the guy's nose. 

Barely ten seconds pass before the petite blonde who styled and primped Type’s hair earlier that morning rushes on set towards the photographer with a utility belt of brushes and products. 

“I think the hair needs something,” the photographer tilts his head, sucks on his bottom lip again, the smacking sound making the hairs on the back of Type’s neck stand on end. “A little more lived in, maybe.” 

“Sure, sure,” the hairstylist smiles and marches towards the model. 

She runs the tail of her tiny comb delicately through his waved fringe, smooths down a few strays over his forehead and sprays half a can of hairspray over the already immovable block on his head making his throat constrict and his lungs seize into a coughing fit. 

“Perfect,” the hairstylist beams through his barking, skipping away behind the scenes as fast as she came in.

Someone in the distance mumbles something and a moment later a PA rushes on with a bottle of water which Type sips gratefully. He’d love to empty the whole bottle but he knows his bladder will be pleading for mercy sooner rather than later if does so. Bathroom breaks are a luxury he’ll have to sacrifice today if he wants to be home before midnight. 

Type finally stops choking when the gas leaves his immediate vicinity and glances up at the photographer who looks even less happy than he did five minutes ago.

“Everyone ready?” he asks despite his apparent displeasure.

Type doesn’t answer, just hands the water bottle back to the PA and waves him off. He rolls his shoulders and puts his hands in the pockets of the pants. He stares straight ahead down the lense, lips slightly parted, eyes focused. He’s ready. Ready to get this shoot over with. 

They go for another forty minutes. The photographer calls on the makeup artist to apply more eyeliner, the stylist to adjust his clothes, and the hairdresser once again who luckily doesn’t have her hairspray with her this time. Type exhausts his pose catalog and even tries some positions he’s never done before. Nothing seems to make the photographer satisfied and each passing second makes Type want to scream. 

“Your shoulders are rising again,” the photographer points out.

“It’s the shirt,” Type says, teeth grinding.

“It’s not the shirt.”

“So it’s me?” 

“You’re tensing.” 

“I’m not tensing.” Type is most definitely tensing.

“You’re shoulders are practically up by your neck.” 

Type can’t hold himself back any longer. “Do you know who I am?” 

This guy might be an up and coming star from America but Type owns the industry on this side of the globe. One phone call to his agent and he’ll have this dick out on his ass. He also plans to sue him for a year's worth of manicures to fix the crescent nail indents in the palms of his hands. 

“I know who you are.” The photographer shrugs, a faint smile on his lips. That’s the worst part about him, what gets under Type’s skin the most. His complete and utter calmness while Type gets more and more infuriated the longer they’re forced to share the same air. “You’re the pretty boy on all the beauty commercials. It was hard to miss you going through Duty-Free. You’re practically the poster boy for Thai beauty,” he says. 

Something tells Type it’s not a compliment.

“So what the fuck is your problem?”

“I don’t want pretty,” the man tells him plainly. “I want real.” 

Type can’t help but laugh. “Nothing about this is real.” Not these clothes, not the makeup on his face, not this photoshoot, not this life. It's all false and forced. Even Type's personality. To the casting agents, the designers, and the public, he's the perfect charming gentleman. In reality, he's obnoxious, rude, and wrought with personal issues. 

“That's exactly my point.” The photographer tips his head as though the penny has finally dropped.

Type snarls. “And why does your point matter? Who the fuck are _you_?"

“I’m the one who called for this shoot,” the photographer explains.

"Get over yourself," Type scoffs. "Photographers don't call for photoshoots. Especially not with me. You're just a finger on a button."

“It's true. I saw you at the airport and I wanted you. The real you.” The photographer folds his arms over his chest. “I thought he would have shown up by now, guess I was wrong.”

“Fuck you,” Type spits, shaking his head making some of his hair fall over his eyes. 

All this time he stuck around assuming pissing off the designer would damage his career. If he knew this was nothing but a game to make him look like an absolute fool he’d never have turned up. He pushes his fringe back and starts to storm off set. 

A hand on his arm stops him and makes him flinch. No one touches him without his say so. No one. It’s in his contract.

“I think you’ve misunderstood me.”

The model angrily pulls his arm from the gentle grasp. “Don’t misunderstand _me_ , asshole. I’m leaving.” Type continues walking, unbuttoning his shirt so he can get out of this stuffy outfit as soon as possible and go home. 

“Wait!” he hears a voice call. “How did you get here?”

_What the fuck?_

“What?” Type looks over his shoulder, baffled and still fuming.

The photographer raises his voice to make up for the space between them. “How did you get here, to the shoot?” 

“My bike. What the fuck are you-”

“Go get it,” the photographer says, cutting the model off mid insult. “Bring it in here.” 

Type doesn’t know what he’s being paid for today. But no way is it worth this. “I’m leaving,” he mutters, exhausted. He can feel a headache building behind his eyes. 

The photographer and his ridiculously long legs stride over to Type before he can make it much further out of the door. His hand is on his arm once again. It’s not okay. It shouldn’t be. But he’s not shaking. He doesn’t feel fear building. 

“I want to know the real you. Show me. Prove to me you’re not just a pretty boy like the guys I learned to loathe in LA.”

Type doesn’t have to prove a thing, not to anyone. Least of all this photographer who seems to have a screw loose. Something niggles at him though. Something itchy in the back of his skull. Something that doesn’t want to be just a nameless pretty moron.

The photographer leans in closer, so close Type can feel his warm skin and his breath next to his ear. “I’ll make it worth your while,” the photographer whispers, and Type feels a burning at the back of his neck.

He flares his nostrils, yanking his arm back for a second time, but doesn’t move. They share a gaze for what feels like days, neither of them blinking, both breathing heavier as the time ticks by. 

Eventually, Type pulls away, “What’s your name again?” 

The photographer grins, wide and unapologetic. Like a cat whos got the mother fucking cream. “Tharn. My name is Tharn. Now, go get the bike. I’ll be waiting,” the photographer -Tharn- winks then walks away.

Type doesn’t know what possesses him when he does exactly as commanded. 

* * *

The on set staff lose their collective minds. All of them gasping in unison as if they had rehearsed it. 

“What is he doing?” the makeup artist whispers not to quietly to his left.

“Who does he think he is bringing that monstrosity to our set?” the PA grumbles on his right.

“What is going on?” some lighting guy mutters from somewhere he doesn’t care to take note of. All Type can think is, _what_ is _going on_?

The photographer however, looks completely unfazed as Type wheels in his motorbike that weighs a fucking ton but like hell he’s letting anyone else near his baby. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll cover the cleaning bill,” Tharn reassures everyone as they look on horrified at the tire trail of dirt Type is leaving behind. 

He reaches his mark in front of the camera and turns his bike in a circle so it's facing the right way. She’s beautiful. Breathtaking. Black and chrome. Dark and sleek in equal measure. He never tires of admiring her. Cleaning her, polishing her, adoring her. She’s his greatest achievement, his pride and joy. The thing he slaved, starved and exhausted himself for the first nine months of his career. Type kicks the leg out to stand her up and sighs as he glares at literally everyone. Especially Tharn. Especially that jerk. 

Said jerk isn’t paying attention though, he’s busy fiddling with his camera. It’s the most work he’s done all day. 

“Oh dear,” a high pitched squeak makes the model flinch. “Look at your hair, it’s a disaster,” the hairstylist giggles, half joking, half pissed. 

She’s about to pull out her hairbrush and lethal hairspray again when a voice shouts, “Don’t!” Making everyone jump. “Don’t touch a thing.” 

After a pause, the hairstylist laughs, baffled. Type is glad he’s not the only one who finds Tharn’s approach to photoshoots more than a little insane. “I’m just going to neaten it up.”

The photographer waves at her. “It’s fine. Leave it.” 

“It looks like he just rolled out of bed.” 

“Precisely,” Tharn nods.

Another high pitch laugh, “But...but it’s practically _sex_ hair,” she exclaims, the S word said under her breath like it's taboo making Type roll his eyes as he leans into his baby.

“Yep.” The asshole grins. 

“It’s completely inappropriate,” the hairstylist has almost reached a level only dogs can hear. Type has to admit it’s pretty funny someone else is just as pissed off as he is... _was_. He’s not entirely sure at this moment.

“Hm, not quite inappropriate enough,” Tharn chews on his bottom lip. Type’s dick flinches he’s so irritated by it. 

He jerks back when the photographer strides over to him, determination in his eyes. Without even asking, he runs his fingers through Type’s hair, digging in deep to shake it from the roots. His hair is still stiff with product that it pulls painfully on his scalp and he grumbles deep in his throat. 

He really needs to stop touching. You don’t touch. You don’t.

“Mind my bike, asshole,” the model cusses instead, low so that only Tharn can hear.

Tharn continues unbothered, hands still in the model's hair, ruffling and twisting pieces here and there, tugging the waves loose, pulling some strands over his forehead. He leans increasingly closer that their noses almost touch. He smooths the shorter hairs at the nape of Type’s neck down and Type feels as if every fiber of his being is frayed and tingling. His skin buzzing. His heart pounding in his ears. 

“You seem warm. You’re not getting sick are you?” 

_No, asshole._ Type tries to answer. He really does. His lips part, but nothing comes out. His throat clammy and constricted. 

Tharn smiles, satisfied with Type’s flapping mouth. “There. Perfect.” He steps away and nods, happy with his handy work. 

“I cannot put my name to that. It’s a mess!” the hairstylist screams, stamping her foot.

“It’s sexy.”

Type rolls his eyes, directly at the photographer this time. 

“Okay!” Tharn claps his hands together to gather everyone's attention. “Lights are perfect, bike is positioned good, our superstar model is looking fan-fucking-tastic. Let’s make something amazing!” 

That’s it. Type needs a new career.

* * *

Whether it’s the bike, the hair, or the crumpled half undone shirt, Tharn is a completely different person than he was that morning as he shoots Type. Occasionally he’ll run over and ruffle the model's hair, something Type hates less and less, but for the most part, it's praises, compliments and even whooping. 

Type doesn’t quite understand it. He feels the same. He poses the same. His outfit still looks dumb. But Tharn seems to see something. Something real, apparently. 

“Chin just a tiny bit lower, eyes up, fingers relaxed. Beautiful.” 

Type does everything he’s told. His muscles are starting to ache, the lights are making him nauseous and his headache is at the forefront of his skull. Despite the discomfort, he pushes through. 

Tharn calls lunch at around 1:30 PM but Type declines. He never eats on shoots. He doesn’t want the salt to rush to his face and make him puffy. He made that mistake on his first ever job and they had to photoshop his cheeks to make them match the previous photos. He’s been traumatised since.

He doesn’t explain this to Tharn. He just grumbles and says he’s not hungry before heading to the toilet. When he comes out, the photographer is waiting with a bar of chocolate and a smug smile on his face. 

“You should keep your blood sugar up, I’ll never forgive myself if you faint on my watch.” 

“I don’t faint. And I can buy my own candy.” He pushes it back into Tharn’s hand and walks away back to set to wait for everyone else to come back from the coffee shop. He doesn’t miss the two chocolate bars sat on the end of the desk by the monitor or the fact that Tharn also doesn’t eat anything offered to him when the PA comes back with an array of drinks and sandwiches.

It’s past sunset by the time Tharn announces, “We got it!” 

Type sighs, leaning heavily against his bike. It takes everything in him not to drop to the floor and sleep there for the night.

“Great job, everyone. Thank you guys, thank you.” Tharn gives a round of applause that everyone, even the hairstylist, joins in on. Everyone but Type. He doesn’t have the energy. He’s amazed his eyes are still open. Maybe the makeup artist glued his eyelids on storks when she touched up his foundation. 

Or maybe she didn’t, because now they’re closed and someone has their hand on his shoulder. It’s familiar enough that he knows exactly who it belongs to without looking. Still, it makes him uncomfortable. And the shoot is over. So formalities are well and truly out of the window. If they were ever in it to begin with. 

“Stop. touching. me,” he orders. It sounded much more menacing in his head than it does out loud. 

“Okay. Sure thing.” Tharn’s hand leaves his vibrating skin. “I just wanted to say thank you for today. And for letting me shoot your bike too. It's beautiful."

"She," Type corrects, opening his eyes to glare. "You saw her in the parking lot." Not a question, a statement. "You knew how I got here this morning." He figured it out while he was straddling her for the mid roll of the shoot. 

"I did."

"Then why did you even ask?" 

"Because I was trying to be nice?" The photographer says like he's guessing as much as Type is. "We got off on the wrong foot, and I'm sorry. Sometimes I can be a little particular.” _A little?_ Type thinks internally. "I wanted you stick around, I wanted you to relax. So I played dumb and asked you to bring your bike in so you could loosen up around something familiar."

"Do you think I'm some sort of rookie who needs patronising?" 

Tharn frowns, deep creases trickling his forehead. "Do you always assume the worst of people?" 

"Yes."

"How come?" 

"Like I owe you an explanation," Type scoffs. "Whatever. It’s not like we’ll be seeing each other ever again. Have a safe flight back to America,” he mutters, the undertone of snark sitting heavy in his stomach the moment he says it. 

“Oh…” Tharn smiles, it's hollow and Type feels a little guilty for putting it there. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I’m not going back to America. I’m here indefinitely.”

“So?” Type wants to pretend he doesn’t care. But honestly, if he didn’t, why hasn’t he walked away yet?

“So, didn’t your agent tell you?” His smile broadens. “I’ve been hired as the new director of photography at Mode Models. We’ll probably be seeing a lot more of each other.”

_Oh, fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

Type is in a foul mood. 

He sleeps through his alarm, he stubs his toe getting out of bed, he bites his tongue while brushing his teeth and burns his breakfast in his frantic rush. As if his nerves aren’t already fried, the cherry on top of the cake is arriving at his agency's office floor and seeing an infuriatingly familiar face the moment the elevator doors open. 

Type had naively let himself believe Tharn’s new position at his agency had been nothing more than a wind up to push his buttons. He should have known better. Fate just loves to fuck him over, and now Type has to deal with seeing the photographers smug face whenever he visits the office.

Tharn is stood in the reception lobby, at least six people around him, a few models, a few office members, and even Techno, the mail guy and Type’s one and only real friend at the agency. All of them are staring in wonder at the photographer, cupping identical takeout coffee cups between their palms, laughing in perfect unison when Tharn speaks as if he’s just told the funniest joke there ever was. 

Type stands behind the small group, glaring burning holes in the back of Tharn’s large head. 

“Hey, Type,” Techno grins, noticing him. “I didn’t know you were coming in today. Look, Tharn bought everyone drinks, he got me my favorite, a cinnamon latte. I didn’t even know he knew who I was. Isn’t he so cool?” Techno waves his cardboard cup in the air. 

“Yeah, so cool,” Type grumbles, hearing Tharn chuckle. The sound of it like nails down a chalkboard. 

“There’s still some left,” Type’s friend announces cheerfully. “There’s even one with your name on.” 

Techno skips over to him and a red cup matching everyone else’s is thrust into Type’s hand. Sure enough, he turns it and finds his name scribbled down the side in black ink. 

“I hate coffee,” he informs no one in particular. Though if he’s being honest with himself, he is speaking to someone very particular. 

“That’s why I ordered you a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream,” Tharn says, turning to look over his shoulder with a smile, earning an audible ‘aw’ from some of the girls. 

Type glares. 

“What am I? Eight?”

Techno nudges his shoulder, “Don’t you love whipped cream?” 

_Fucking traitor_ , Type thinks. 

He does love whipped cream, he’d have it on every sweet thing he devoured if it was socially acceptable. But how Tharn knows that is going to gnaw away at him until past lunch. 

“Thanks, but I’m on a strict regime.” He isn’t, for the most part. He eats healthy, works out five times a week, and allows himself the occasional sweet treat when he feels like it. Something inside him doesn’t want to give the photographer the satisfaction of being owed though. It’s pathetic. But Type has always been a little immature so he doesn’t dwell on it. 

He thinks about throwing the drink in the trash can next to him to make his point. He would do if he weren’t surrounded by so many gossiping banshees who would make his life a misery if they knew his hatred for the photographer. 

Instead, he hands the drink back to Techno and barges past the flock of fangirls and boys without another word. He gets halfway to his manager's office when a hand on his shoulder makes him jump.

“Hey, hold up.” 

It’s Tharn. Of course it is. Can’t Type have just one day without this guy and his stupid face? 

“I told you not to touch me,” he warns, and the hand slowly pulls away from his shoulder.

“Here.” The red cup with his name on is once again pushed in front of his face.

Can this idiot not understand the word ‘no’? 

“I told you, I’m not drinking that.” 

Tharn smirks, “It’s tea.” 

Tharn narrows his eyes.

“You said it was hot chocolate.”

“It was, this is tea. I ordered you both just in case.”

“Why?” Type genuinely wants to know. 

“Because someone said you loved cream and chocolate,” Tharn says. His smirk melts into a soft smile. “But I didn’t want to insult you in case you were a sugar-free zone this week. I thought I’d let you decide.” 

“What is this?” Type asks. Who is this thoughtful? Who does this without wanting something in return? Who buys an entire office their drinks and doesn’t stamp a huge  **You Owe Me** mark on the side of every cup?

Tharn sighs. It’s possibly the first and only flicker of emotion outside his frustration with photography Type has seen. 

“This is called being nice.” Tharn’s hand reaches down to cup one of his hands and place the drink in it. “Maybe you should try it sometime.” He smiles, then walks away. 

Type is left alone in the corridor, his blood simmering. 

* * *

Type has back to back shoots for the next week and manages to avoid going into the office where he risks seeing the photographer. Work goes okay, the teams he shoots with are professional if a little bland. 

He has to repeatedly jump into a pile of foam chunks one day and it should be fun, but it’s not, really. The styling team has to touch him constantly, straightening his hair, retouching his makeup, dusting his clothes. He’s used to it, for the most part, he’s fine when he’s prepared. It’s the unwanted, unplanned, and spontaneous contact he can’t stomach. Someday’s though, no matter how prepared he is, when touching becomes a constant never-ending cycle, it leaves him feeling raw. 

To blow off some steam, Type goes out for drinks with Techno to their go-to bar on Saturday. They have a great time. Techno cheers him up and the alcohol loosens his tense muscles. 

He wakes the following Sunday with a blinding headache and several unread LINE messages. 

“Shit!” Type jumps upright in bed when he recognizes the face in the icon.

He scrolls through the chaos from the night before. There are drunken misspelled messages of nonsense cursing and insults from himself, and confusion from Tharn asking if he’s alright. Eventually, he seems to get the message and counteracts each insult from Type with an obnoxious innuendo. 

“How the fuck did he get my LINE number?” And more to the point, how did he get Tharn’s? 

Then it hits him. 

“Techno,” Type seethes, his hand tightening around his cellphone.

He clicks on the first of three videos he sent Tharn around midnight and gasps, mouth agape and eyes wide in horror. 

The first is him chugging a beer while several bystanders cheer him on. The second is him dancing by himself in an otherwise abandoned corner of the bar to some terrible 90’s disco hit. His friend is singing off-key to all the wrong words in the background. The third video is bad. Worse than the dancing. Worse than the song he was dancing to. Worse than Techno singing. 

_ “Techno, Tech-ki-nooo,” Type slurs, hand around a half-drunk pint of beer, body draped over the table. “Do you know what I hate the most in this world?”  _

_ “What, buddy?” his friend behind the camera replies. _

_ “What I really, really hate.” _

_ “Tell me.”  _

_ “Obnoxious, self-absorbed, do-gooders who think they know you soooo well. They think it’s okay to get up in your space and shit. When they don’t know you from fucking Steve the security guard.” _

_ “Fuck those guys!” Techno shouts. The phone suddenly drops to the table with a clunk before it’s picked back up again, focusing frighteningly close to his face.  _

_ “Fuck that guy,” Type cheers, pausing only to chug his beer. “Fuck that photographer. I hate him. His stupid drinks and stupid smile. Do you know how sad I was when I threw out that chocolate whipped cream?”  _

_ “Don’t worry pal, I drank it for you. It was so guurd.” _

_ Type’s droopy face becomes instantly alert, fury in his eyes as he lunges forward towards the camera.  _

_ “You drank my fucking whipped cr-”  _

The video cuts out, and the photographer's reply is a cackling cartoon cat followed by another innuendo and finally a goodnight message telling Type to get home safe.

“Fuck.” Type drops his phone and pulls his covers over his head. “Fuckfuckfuck,” he muffles into his quilt 

Type is never leaving his bedroom. Ever. Again.

* * *

Type drags himself to the office reluctantly. It’s been over a month since his photoshoot with Tharn, two weeks since the drinks fiasco and almost a week since the drunken blunder of LINE messages that caused Type to vow to never drink alcohol ever again. At least not with Techno. 

Today he has a meeting with a beauty brand for their new shampoo line. Type can’t remember the name of the company. But he distinctly recalls the mention of dying his hair blonde for the campaign, something he is very much not okay with. Meaning he’ll probably lose the shoot. He’s already five minutes late as it is, couple tardiness with reluctance to mold into what a brand wants from you, it’s a lost war before the battle has even begun. Still, he’s not one to give in without a fight.

Type skips the elevator and hurriedly sprints up the steps of the building to the third floor. He checks his watch as he runs past Mai at the reception desk, his manager is going to kill him for this. 

He stops just short of the door of doom, smooths his hair, re-tucks his shirt into his jeans and shakes himself off before twisting the door handle of the meeting suite. 

Type opens his mouth to immediately apologize to both his agent and the client for being late. His words are suddenly lost in his throat when he sees who is sat down at the head of the conference table. Not his agent, but someone else entirely. 

“Oh, Type. Glad you could finally join us.” Tharn smiles and gestures to the chair beside him. “Please, take a seat.”

“Where is Mr. Tee?” Type demands. No formalities or seniority respect. He shouldn’t be speaking this way in front of a client, he should be apologizing profusely and repeatedly bowing. 

“He couldn’t make it to the meeting, his daughter is sick. So he asked me to stand in for him temporarily,” Tharn explains, his expression as cool as a cucumber. 

Tharn is so convincing, Type would believe his calm demeanor without question. Except Mr. Tee doesn’t have a daughter, or a son, or a wife for that matter. His manager is a forty-five-year-old bachelor who lives on fast cars and cheap women. He is not a family man by any stretch of the imagination. 

Something isn’t right. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t find out what it is. 

Type narrows his eyes and pulls out the chair furthest from the photographer and sits down. 

“Why you?” 

“Why me…?” Tharn questions, not understanding.

“Why are you filling in for Mr. Tee?” Type elaborates. 

Of all the people in this building, why him? Why? Even the zombie security guard on the ground floor would be better than him. 

“I was the only company representative available at such short notice.” 

“So?”

“So-”

“I’m sorry,” the client, a greying middle-aged plump of a man speaks up from across the large mahogany table. Type had honestly forgotten he was even in the room. He flicks his chubby wrist to look at his watch. “Can we get back to the matter at hand? I’m on a tight schedule.” 

“Of course, Mr. Langkapin.” Tharn threads his fingers together and leans across the table. He’s smiling, but it’s different, maybe a little sinister. “As I was saying, we won’t be changing our model's hair at this time. It’s just not on the cards.”

“That’s not what Mr. Tee said when we set up this meeting.” 

Tharn shrugs. “Mr. Tee isn’t here, I am.” 

“It’s already in the contract.” The man pushes a pile of papers towards Tharn. “You’ll be personally liable for the breach penalty sum.” 

“The contract neither the agency nor our employee has signed yet.” Tharn pushes the papers back. 

“The concept has been in the planning for months. You can’t expect us to change our whole storyboard for one little diva.” The man sniggers towards Type.

He knew he should have stayed in bed today. 

“I’m not asking you to change your storyboard. I’m simply explaining to you that Type cannot dye his hair how you want him to for one ad. He has several other companies he’s already signed with who want him exactly as he is and if he loses those contracts, the company will have to deal with the fallout.” 

It’s odd seeing Tharn like this. He and Type can’t be much different in age. Yet his confidence makes him appear so much older than his years would suggest.

The fat man sits back in his chair with a sigh. “The company wants him. What we’re offering you will more than double any lawsuit those other companies can throw at you.”

“Mr. Langkapin, those other companies are our loyal sponsors. They trust us and we trust them. Your money can only do so much, it can’t rebuild the bridges we may burn in the meantime.” 

“You’re speaking as if I’m asking you to start a fire literally. It’s a little hair dye. What’s the big deal, kid?” The man turns away from Tharn to speak directly to Type. “You bleach it one day and then dye it back the next. People do it all the time. Do you think you’re special or something? You’re nothing. You’re just a pretty face and a hot body. You're a step away from a high class whore."

Type dips his chin and hunches his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as humanly possible, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. Most of the time clients and brand representatives want exactly what he wants, for the end result to be the best it can be. Occasionally, he’s forced to work for a complete and total prick who makes Type feel like he wants to peal the worthless skin from his bones. 

A sudden smack of skin against wood makes him jump. Tharn’s palm is face down flat on the table. His expression is unreadable, but his neck is clammy and his ears are red. 

“Mr. Langkapin, if you insult our employees one more time I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Type lifts his head, shocked at the words coming from Tharn’s mouth. 

“I’m afraid it seems our companies don’t have the same ideals. Regardless of the amount of money you offer, we won’t be working with you or your brand. Have a nice day, Mr. Langkapin, we’re done here.” Tharn pushes from his chair and makes eye contact with Type as he passes him. He winks as he leaves the room. 

Type mumbles some sort of apology to the man and stumbles behind the photographer, fists clenched tight. 

He follows Tharn down the corridor, around a corner, down another few doors, and into the photographer's office. Yes, the jerk has scored himself his own office. Its walls are decorated in endless photographs, presumably ones he took. There are also awards dotted around the room, some of them in English meaning he probably won them while he was in America. Not that Type notices much. Or cares. 

“Wow. You are welcome,” Tharn chuckles with his back facing Type.

“What the hell was that? Where the fuck is my manager?” 

“He’s in jail.” 

“The fuck?” Type says. 

“Embezzlement. He’s been stealing from the company.” 

"Tell me this is a joke?"

"Nope."

"Shit," he drags his hand through his hair. “Fine.” It’s not fine. What the fuck? What if the company thinks he did something too? What if they just fire each and every model Mr. Tee represents, starting with him?

Type forces himself to put a pin that clusterfuck for the time being. 

“You were late, so I volunteered,” the photographer shrugs casually. Like Type’s manager hasn’t just got arrested for fraud, like Type hasn’t just lost a huge job, like Type’s career isn’t blowing up in his face completely out of the blue and not a single part of it is his fault.

His mind spins and rage bubbles over. 

Type pushes Tharn against the wall, hands fisting the front of his shirt. “I don’t have a manager, I don’t have any other contracts, and you just cost me the campaign of a lifetime,” he hisses under his breath. His anger clear enough despite the low volume of his voice. 

Tharn smirks, warm hands covering Type’s fists but not pulling them away from his shirt. “You’d look terrible as a blonde.”

Type snarls and punches him across the jaw. He’s a little rusty so Tharn recovers quickly, and Type grabs his shirt again and pushes him back into the wall, the photographer's hands move to circle his wrists. 

“Is this a fucking joke to you? Because this is my career, my _life_.” 

“You wanted to work for that slimebag?”

“What I want is fucking irrelevant.” Type pushes Tharn into the wall hard, his head near misses the photo frame behind him. 

“It should be.” The fingers around his wrists tighten, Tharn’s face contorts from the classic smugness Type has grown accustomed to into something ugly. His nostrils flare, his eyes narrow and his lips are puckered tightly. “Do you know what it did to me to have to listen to him call you a whore? You’re not their toy. You don’t belong to them.”

“Who the fuck do I belong to then? You?” Type laughs. 

Suddenly before he can even think, Tharn twists him around, his head spinning, and pushes him against the wall with a painful jolt.

The world stops. Heavy breathing fills the room. 

“Yes,” Tharn whispers. “Me, _me_.” 

Tharn pulls his hands up and presses them above his head against the wall. Type feels his breath on his neck, Tharn leaning closer, his lips almost touching his bare fragile skin. His body pushed against his, the bulge in his pants swelling against his thigh. Type’s hands are starting to shake, he feels the pulsing of his own heartbeat in his ears like a drum. Tharn is close, too close. Touching, touching, grabbing, pulling, hurting. It hurts, it hurts so much, he’s cold and it hurts so much.

“D-don’t...please don’t,” he begs. “Please.” 

“Wha-?” Tharn breaths.

“Let me go, please let me go,” tears sting Type’s eyes. “D-don’t hurt me.” 

In a blink, the hands holding his wrists are gone, the body pushing against his pulls back. The air rushes back his lungs and he sags against the wall. 

“I-I…” Tharn staggers back, his face as white as a hospital sheet. “I-I’m sorry. I-” 

Type slaps him across the face before he gets another word out. He scrambles from the room, tears falling from his eyes, his chest heaving. He runs into the men's toilets, locks himself in the furthest cubicle and collapses against the door in a tangled heap.


	3. Chapter 3

The company doesn’t fire him. In fact, they apologize profusely and pretty much beg him not to sue them. 

Type is given a cooling-off period while they find him a new manager. He does his best not to lock himself in his apartment in the meantime. 

Not wanting to be a slave to his own spiteful and ugly thoughts, he leaves Bangkok and goes back home to his parents for a few days. He doesn’t tell them much beyond he has some time off. He doesn’t want them to worry. His mother scolds him for ‘too healthy’, and does her best to fatten him up in the two short days he stays. His father challenges him to a game of soccer and wins embarrassingly easily for a man pushing fifty. Type grazes both knees without a care and it’s like he’s ten years old again. 

Feeling recharged, the ocean air filling his lungs, Type packs up his things and kisses his parents goodbye. His mother sends him off with a month's worth of pre-cooked meals and his father makes him promise to call when he gets home. 

He’s so exhausted from the bus ride, he completely forgets until the next morning while he’s out shopping. 

“Yes, dad. I’m fine.” 

_ “You know, you’re going to give me more grey hairs than age itself.”  _

Type laughs at his chuntering down the line. He can hear his mother in the background telling his father he must be busy, her handsome boy is so popular. “Lil’ man is sorry he didn’t call last night.” 

He spots a store that looks promising. He’s trying to find his mother a birthday gift. Something special. Something she can’t in their tiny village resort. 

“Okay dad, I’ll call you later. I promise. I love you.” 

_ “Love you too, son.”  _

“Bye,” Type smiles as he hangs up, his eyes glued to his phone that he doesn’t notice the person in front of him until he crashes into a solid chest. “Sorry.”

He looks up at the face attached to the body and cusses karma once again for ruining his five minutes of ignorance. 

“H-hi,” Tharn chews on his bottom lip. It reminds Type of the first time they met. It must be something he does when he’s nervous. Though the idea of Tharn ever being nervous is pretty shocking. 

“Mh,” Type grunts. “Hi.”

“I…” Tharn drops his gaze to the floor for a beat, then schools his features into his classic breezy smile. “How have you been?” 

“Fine.”

“Good. That’s good,” Tharn nods.

“Yeah.”

“You look-”

“I gotta go,” Type interrupts. He doesn’t have the patience to play cat and mouse today. Or ever again with Tharn for that matter. Maybe he overreacted the last time they had a run-in, but the suffocating panic is still so prevalent in his mind. The fingers around his wrists. 

“Wait.” 

There it is again, those fingers. Around his wrist and catching him off guard. Type tries his best not to react. 

“Have coffee with me?” 

“I hate-”

“Coffee, I know,” Tharn huffs out a short chuckle. It’s hollow, lacking humor. “Please, just one drink?”

Type glances down at the hand on him. Tharn sees it too and let's go like he’s been electrocuted.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Something tells Type he’s not just talking about the here and now. 

Type studies Tharn’s face. He’s pale. Dark smudges under his eyes. His hair is a mess and his shirt looks too big on his frame. He hasn’t been sleeping, he looks worn and bruised. He looks how Type feels some days. 

Type thinks about his mother, how grateful she’d be if someone asked her son for coffee, or just a chat, on days where he feels like the whole world wants to ruin him. 

“One drink,” Type agrees. “I have shit to do.” 

Tharn smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes but most people probably wouldn’t notice. Type doesn’t know why he does. 

“There’s this place I know just down the street. It’s quiet,” he adds like he knows how much Type would appreciate it.

He does. In an odd kind of way, he doesn’t expect to. 

They awkwardly shuffle around each other as they walk, Tharn leading the way. Tharn avoids closeness like Type has a bubble around him, Type tries to act natural but it just makes things worse. Eventually, they find the coffee shop. Tharn was right, it is quiet, hardly anyone inside the small cafe. It’s rustic, intimate. It feels too special for whatever this is they’re doing. 

Wordlessly, Tharn leaves Type to choose the table and he does, at the back of the cafe next to the window where he can stare out and at least pretend he’s not trapped inside a tiny box with someone he hates. 

They sit down, Type facing the window, Tharn facing the toilet. It’s poetic really. Type watches the world go by and Tharn twiddles his thumbs until the waitress comes to take their order. 

“Just black coffee for me, thank you,” Tharn says when a petite woman in her fifties comes over. She smiles like she knows Tharn, but doesn’t say anything to allude to how or why. Maybe he’s just a regular. 

“Hot chocolate, marshmallows, and extra cream, please.” Type doesn’t care about the calories or how childish his drink is. It still doesn’t stop him from glancing to see any reaction from Tharn. 

He doesn’t get one. 

Type feels a tiny bit disappointed. 

The waitress scribbles their drinks down on her pad and promises their order won’t be long. Type almost wants to beg her not to leave, but she does and then he and Tharn are left with silence and their own thoughts. The quiet is deafening. Type starts to count the veins on Tharn’s hands, they’re insane, actually huge. Tharn looks like he works out, do his veins work out too?

“I’m sorry,” Tharn speaks eventually. “I’m so sorry. I got the wrong impression, I thought we had some-...” He shakes his head. “Nevermind, it doesn’t matter. I stepped over the line, and I’m sorry.”

Type loses count of the veins. 

“Forget it,” he mumbles past the lump in his throat. It feels like the air is getting thinner. 

“If you want to report me to the company-”

“I don’t,” Type cuts him off. Besides, it’s not like Tharn doesn’t have plenty of things to report on him. “I just want to forget it,” he says firmly.

“Okay, sure. Okay, I’m sorry,” Tharn drops his chin to his chest. “Techno said you’ve been out of town,” he says like he’s trying to make conversation like they’re friends.

“I went to my parents.” 

“That sounds nice.” Tharn’s eyes flicker down to the gym shorts he’s wearing and his bare legs that follow, he chuckles a little. “Looks like you had fun.”

Type frowns, following his gaze and remembers his grazed knees and the grass stains still on his shins. He hasn’t had time to have a proper shower since he got back or the motivation. 

“Oh, yeah.” He tries to brush some of the green and brown stains away. It’s a lost cause. “Soccer with my dad.” 

“He seems brutal.” 

Type smiles at the memories, his dad mercilessly tackling him, his mom shouting to be careful of his pretty face. “Yeah,” he answers. He’s never been good at small talk. 

Before they can fall into another hole of awkward silence, the waitress arrives with a tray and their drinks. She sets Tharn’s coffee down first, then places Type’s mountain of whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles and mini marshmallows in front of him with a smile. One of the marshmallows falls from the cream and drops onto the table. Type moves his hand across the table to grab it, Tharn pushes his own past his coffee to do the same, both freezing when they touch. Hands clumsily colliding. 

It’s then Type thinks Tharn should consider hand modeling if photography doesn’t work out. Type’s hands are short, stumpy and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop biting his nails. Tharn’s fingers are long, slender, his palms soft and nails perfectly manicured. 

Tharn catches the tips of Type’s fingers, the touch so delicate its almost not there. “Can I ask you something?” 

“You can ask, doesn’t mean I’ll answer,” Type shrugs, pulling his hand back to sit in his lap. 

Tharn nods, licking his lips and pressing them together like he’s trying to decide how to word his next sentence. “You don’t like to be touched,” he settles on. 

“That’s not a question.” Type doesn’t deny it regardless. 

“Is it me? Do I…Is it my touch?” Tharn tone seems desperate. Like he’s pleading to be proven otherwise. Why it’s so important to him is anyone’s guess. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, asshole,” Type scoffs and Tharn visibly sags in relief across the table.

“Good. I’m glad. I was afraid...you were repulsed by me or something.” It’s meant to be a joke, but it doesn’t feel like one. And to give him credit, Tharn isn’t completely wrong. He’s just not special. 

“Whatever.” Type licks the top of his cream, it’s starting to sink into his hot chocolate, the brown liquid bubbling over the edges of the cup and spilling down the sides making a mess. 

“I’m glad we ran into each other,” Tharn smiles, sipping on his coffee, watching Type try to salvage his drink. “I didn’t think I’d get the chance before I left.”

“Left?” Type says, not the most eloquent of things to come out of his mouth but his brain likes to shut off when he’s caught off guard.

“I’m going back to America, I’ve been offered a job.” 

“Oh.” 

Is that...disappointment he feels? Why? Tharn does nothing but gross him out and turn him into a pillar of rage. 

“When do you leave? Not that I care,” he adds just to spite the photographer.

“Two days,” he answers, unoffended. “Why, are you going to miss me?” The classic Tharn smirk is back in full force, and Type wants to punch him all over again. 

“Fuck you.” Type picks up his cup and sips of his drink, cream smearing around his mouth. “I’ll gladly pay for your taxi to the airport.” 

Tharn laughs, cupping his coffee, hiding his grin behind his mug. 

Then he’s leaning across the table, his thumb brushing against Type’s top lip and licking the cream when he’s done. Type doesn’t know how to react. His mind telling him to jerk back with full force aggression, his gut telling him to act normal. 

Tharn notices and the color drains from his face. “U-uh, sorry.” The glaze of ease over his eyes has disappeared so quickly, it’s like it was never there. “Habit, I suppose. My little sister likes cream too, she gets it everywhere,” he comments. 

“I remind you of your sister?” Type glares.

“I guess.” 

“Thanks,” he grumbles.

Tharn’s shoulders shrink forward, “I want to hide you from the world like I want to hide her.” His voice is barely a whisper, and if Type weren’t sitting so close, the table so small, their knees almost touching, he’d have missed it.

Once again, he doesn’t know how to react. His neck heats up, the tips of his ears turn red, his heart pounds in his chest. He feels trapped and safe all at once and it’s too much. It’s dangerous. It’s suffocating. 

People like Type don’t get to be safe. 

It just hurts all the more when it’s pulled away. 

“I-I need to go,” he mumbles, setting his half-drunk chocolate down on the saucer. The chair makes a horrid sound as it topples over and crashes to the floor when he clumsily stands. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you around.” 

Type’s hands shake as he reaches for his wallet. He flips it open and tries to pull out a few notes, clammy numb fingers refusing to do as they’re told. 

The photographer stands, his large hand settling over Type’s, warm and comforting.

“It’s okay.” 

Type’s mind spins. It’s not. _Don’t say that. Don’t touch me. Don’t hurt me._

“I would never hurt you,” Tharn vows. 

Type hadn’t realized he’d been thinking out loud. 

“Get off me,” he says, he doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t want it. He’s tired of feeling alone. 

Tharn seems to understand. His hand tightens around his shaky fingers, firm but not painful. “Let me take you home.” 

Type nods. “Okay.” 

“Your bike?” 

“I walked,” Type answers. The high street isn’t too far from his condo and he felt like getting some fresh air. “My mothers' present,” he blunders out while Tharn drops some notes from his wallet onto the table. Type puts his own away when he realizes he still has his cupped in his sweaty palms. “I didn’t get it.” 

Tharn puts his wallet back in his pocket. “Can you get it another day?” 

Type shakes his head. He could. He doesn’t want to. 

“I’ll go with you.” 

One thing Type is quickly realizing, Tharn is a stubborn asshole. Maybe even more stubborn than him. 

“Fine,” he says, trying to seem disagreeable. 

Tharn smiles. “Fine.”

* * *

They go to the mall. And shopping with Tharn is...different. 

He’s excitable, like an overly hyper puppy, and he makes dumb winky faces at just about every sales assistant who is nice to them. Man, woman, young, old, you name it. At least he’s not just a cocky obnoxious prick exclusively for Type. 

On the bright side, it makes him forget what happened in the coffee shop, his jittery fear replaced with absolute irritation. 

Tharn’s distance doesn’t go unnoticed though. He keeps a foot wide gap between them at all times for the most part, and whenever they do bump shoulders because they’re trying to avoid other customers, he apologizes instantly.

Type takes a step to the left when a mother pushing a newborn in a buggy approaches from the opposite direction. She smiles and dips her head to say thank you, Type smiles back and glances at the tiny baby inside as she comes past. It’s precious and kind of ugly at the same time. 

“Sorry,” Tharn says when their elbows touch despite Type bumping into him. 

“Can you stop?” Type sighs. “It’s really annoying.” 

“I was just-”

Type stops in the middle of the mall. “I’m not going to have a meltdown every time you come near me.”

“Sorry.” 

“Stop saying sorry.”

“Sorry.” 

“For fuck-” Type starts but stops himself when he sees Tharn is grinning. “Shut up.” He starts walking again when he spots a famous designer name he’s worn plenty of times, but the store he’s never actually stepped foot in before. Tharn has though, his GG belt as obnoxious as he is. 

Type spends half an hour at the counter debating between a black wallet and a green one for his mother’s birthday. The price is more than she and his father make in a month at their resort, but Type doesn’t care. He’s making good money now, and she’s worth it. That, and so much more. 

“Green,” Tharn says after thirty-five minutes pass.

“Really?” Type asks, not that he cares about Tharn’s opinion.

“It’ll stand out. Make all her friends jealous. She can tell them her famous model son bought it for her.”

“I’m not famous,” Type counters.

Tharn smiles, looking around the glitzy store. “You could be the face of somewhere like this one day.” 

“Right,” Type rolls his eyes. “I would have thought you’d say this place wasn’t ' _real_ '.” He rolls his tongue to over enunciate the last word. 

“It’s not,” Tharn replies, ignoring the shocked look of the store assistant in front of them. “But it’s good exposure for better things.” 

Type shakes his head, tells the assistant he’ll take the green wallet and yes he’d like it gift wrapped. He walks out of the store with a bag that doesn’t match his scruffy outfit and grazed knees. He almost looks like Tharn’s bag boy, the man stood beside him dressed in a silk blue shirt, designer ripped jeans and of course, his Gucci belt. 

“I’m curious,” Tharn says, the gap between them noticeably smaller as they wander back through the mall. “Why did you decide to become a model?”

“Why did you decide to be a photographer?” Type grumbles in response.

“I wanted to be a musician but my parents were worried it wouldn’t be a stable career,” Tharn answers easily. 

“Because photography is so much more reliable.” 

“You’re right,” Tharn laughs with him. “But they already crushed my first dream, I don’t think they could bring themselves to do the same to my second.” He shrugs, “It was hard at first, I was just a nameless nobody with a flashy camera. No one wanted to take me seriously. Not even my own parents, which killed me because they’re the most supportive, loving parents any kid could ask for.” 

Type and Tharn fall into a steady pace beside each other as Tharn continues. Type pretends like he’s only half-listening. In truth, he’s absorbing Tharn’s every word. 

Tharn smiles, sadness in his eyes. “I came out to them when I was fourteen and they never once made me question myself or made me feel like I didn’t deserve the world. I guess it’s different when the question of how you’re going to make a living comes up.” 

“Yeah,” Type agrees. Remembering that conversation with his own parents like it was just yesterday. 

“Your turn to answer my question.”

“What question?” Type tries to play dumb.

Tharn smirks, not falling for it. “Why did you become a model?” He repeats.

Type shrugs silently. His story is pathetic and lazy compared to Tharn’s. He’s embarrassed to say it out loud. 

“Come on,” Tharn nudges him, gingerly like he’s waiting for Type to freak out for a moment. “I want to know,” he says when nothing dramatic happens.

Type sighs. He really isn’t going to get out of this. Tharn is like a dog with a bone, that much is clear. “I hated school, I was good looking, and it seemed easy. Stupid, right?” 

“I wouldn’t say stupid.” Tharn looks at him and Type feels like the photographer has forgotten the rest of the world exists. “You knew what you wanted and you went for it. Not many people can say that.” 

“I guess.” Type isn’t convinced. 

“You’re a cynical little brat, anyone ever tell you that?” 

Type stops dead, and Tharn is so taken aback he crashes into him. 

“You’re an overbearing conceited asshole,” he spits in return. 

Tharn just laughs. “Those are big words. Did you learn them on the internet?” 

“Dick.” Type clenches his fist.

“Yeah, yeah. Can we go home now? My legs ache.” Tharn doesn’t wait for Type to answer, he just starts walking, aiming for the exit. Type collects himself eventually and jogs after him. 

He lets Tharn drive him to his condo building, despite his better judgment of telling the man his address.

“Nice place,” Tharn compliments when they pull up in the parking bay next to his Type’s bike.

It is nice, Type can’t argue. He put a deposit down on the place after he bought his bike. His condo is modern, sleek, with a state of the art security system and more space than he’ll ever need. But it’s not something he takes much pride in. He sleeps here, he eats here, and he plays video games when he has days off. Beyond that, he doesn’t care much for his living space. It never feels like home.

“I guess this is goodbye,” Tharn says, hands on his steering wheel, eyes straight ahead. 

“Are you expecting a hug or something?” Type sniggers. 

“No,” Tharn chuckles. “I’ll send you a postcard from America,” he promises.

“Why?” Type asks in return. It’s not like they’re friends.

“I don’t know. Never mind,” Tharn laughs, but it’s that empty chuckle again Type is growing tired of hearing. “Goodbye, Type.” 

“Bye.” Without sparing the photographer another glance, Type opens the passenger door and lets himself out. He takes the gift for his mother when Tharn passes it to him from the backseat. 

Tharn smiles briefly as Type closes the door after himself. He drags his feet towards the entrance of the building with one last glance over his shoulder to watch the white car pull away. 

* * *

Type gets another three days off. He mopes around his apartment for the first day, he forces himself to get dressed and head to the gym the second, and destroys Techno in Fallout on the third before going back to work.

The company has assigned him a new manager. Her name is Puifai. She’s young, but she seems sweet, easy-going and interested in his opinion for a change. They talk for almost three hours on where Type sees himself in five years. What he’d like to achieve. What direction he wants his career to head in. 

“I want to be more...me. I want to be _real_.” 

He doesn’t realize what he’s saying until the words have already left his mouth.

“What is that for you?” she leans closer, eyes focused on him. “Real?” 

“I don’t know,” Type admits. “I guess I’m still figuring that out.” 

“Let me know when you do.” She smiles, warm, inviting. She’s beautiful, she truly is. Her skin is pale and soft. Her eyes sparkle in the light. Her lips plush and pink. Why isn’t she a model herself? He thinks about his lips on hers, what they taste like. Are they sweet like cream? Or are they bitter like coffee? 

A knock at the door jolts him from his daze. 

“I’ve asked for some new headshots if that’s okay?” Puifai stands and brushes her skirt down. “I’d love to quickly see you in action.” 

“Sure, no problem.” Type stands also and follows her to the door. “Who’s shooting them?”

Just as the words leave his mouth, the door opens from the other side. Type’s eyes travel from the bottom up. Ripped jeans, half-tucked shirt, Gucci belt, and a cocky smirk. 

“Tharn,” Puifai smiles. “Thank you so much for coming in on your day off.”

Tharn folds his arms over his chest. “No problem. No problem at all.”


	4. Chapter 4

Type drags Tharn to the men’s toilets. He ignores the older man’s complaints about the hand around his wrist hurting and all but pushes him through the restroom door. 

“I thought you left for America?” Type questions when they’re alone. 

Tharn brushes himself off, smooths down his shirt and flicks the fallen hair from his eyes. “It didn’t work out,” he answers.

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“They gave the position to someone else and when the company found out they offered me my old job back.” Tharn’s smirk grows after collecting himself. “What is it to you, anyway? I thought you didn’t care?”

“I don’t,” Type sniggers like he’s about ten. “I don’t care what you do unless it includes me. Just when I think I’ve finally gotten rid of you, your stupid face is here again.” 

“Whatever you say.” Tharn leans against the sink countertop. “I mean...it did look like you were almost happy to see me back there. But maybe it’s just my eyes, I forgot to put my contacts in this morning.” 

“It’s definitely your eyes, asshole.” 

“Right,” Tharn nods.

It’s only been a few days since they last saw each other, but Tharn looks better. Well-rested. The dark circles under his eyes almost completely gone, his skin brighter and not so sullen. He actually looks surprisingly chipper for someone who has just lost their job. 

“The fuck is a half-blind photographer meant to take good headshots?” 

“Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. Half-blind or not,” Tharn winks. “But you should probably fix your hair before we get started. It looks like you just rolled out of bed.”

“I thought you were a huge advocate for sex hair?” Type grumbles. 

Tharn just shakes his head. “May I?” he asks, gesturing to Type’s mop. 

Glancing at himself in the mirror, the photographer is right, Type’s hair does look a mess. He styled it this morning, but he’s never been great at doing his own hair and he tends to run his clammy fingers through it one too many times when he’s forced to talk like he’s been doing all morning with his new manager. 

“Fine,” he grunts, nervously twitching as Tharn starts to run his fingers through his hair, combing his fringe back, tucking the strands at his temples behind his ears. 

“You okay?” Tharn asks quietly. 

“Are you expecting a panic attack?”

“I was just checking.” Tharn’s fingers catch his cheek and Type forces himself to stay calm. It’s not the panic he’s used to. It’s something new. Something exclusive to the photographer. Tharm smells good too, whatever cologne he’s wearing is refreshing, Type has only just noticed. 

“I told you, I’m not going to freak out every time you’re near me,” Type says, though the churning in his gut says otherwise. 

“Right. But given our history, my face can only take so many punches.” Tharn smooths down the fly-aways around his hairline. “There,” he announces, “Beautiful.” 

Type looks at himself in the mirror again, “It’ll do,” he says. 

Tharn rolls his eyes, Type feels a small amount of pride he’s getting under Tharn’s skin for a change.

“Here, your lips are dry.” Tharn fishes in his jeans pocket and hands Type something. A lip balm.

“Cherry flavor?” Type questions, bemused. 

“Well, I don’t think they make cream and chocolate flavor,” Tharn sniggers. 

“Fucking asshole.” 

* * *

Headshots are pretty basic. They don’t usually require a whole team of crew members, producers, digital artists, prop artists, stylists, and all the rest of it. For the most part, the model, the photographer, and a good back wall will do.

Tharn drags both Type and Puifai around the nearby buildings outside the office to find the perfect ‘foliage’ backdrop. Type has lost all the patience he mustered up that morning, but he doesn’t let it show. It’s a little early to be revealing his new manager his true colors. If she’ll ever see them at all. Come to think of it, not even his old manager really knew him after two years. Not the feisty, argumentative part of him at least. Tharn seems to be the only person irritating enough to bring that side of him out without much thought of the consequences. 

“Why don’t we try here?” Tharn suggests after far too long.

“Looks good,” Type agrees cheerfully, a tiny bit of satisfaction bubbling in his stomach when Tharn narrows his eyes at him.

The external wall is the same as the last several they have passed on their short travels. The only difference being this one is painted pale blue and has climbing white jasmine trailing up it. Pure white petals delicately winding themselves over the blue, covering the paint in something beautiful. Type isn’t much of a flower guy, but he has fond memories of planting jasmine with his father at the resort when he was younger. Now the plants back home stand several meters tall. These ones pale in comparison, but they’ll do, they’re still beautiful in their own right.

“Let’s do some test shots first,” Tharn suggests, pulling the lens cap off his camera. 

Type pulls down the hem of his shirt, white, linen, boring, perfect for headshots. He just hopes Tharn avoids showing the creases at the bottom or the sweat patches around his armpits. This is why he hates spontaneity. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Puifai asks, fanning herself.

“No, you’re fine,” Tharn smiles at her but it's thin.

It’s almost noon which means its nearly the hottest part of the day. The sun in full beam up in the sky. The location Tharn has picked is in the shade but still has good lighting. Type isn’t sure if it’s intentional and he really is good at his job, or if he just got lucky. 

“Type, you ready?” The photographer asks.

Type nods, adjusting himself in front of the jasmine and the blue wall. He knows his best angles, and although he’s been praised for having a symmetrical face, he prefers his left side to his right. He angles himself accordingly and keeps his face neutral. No point in wasting energy on a smile for a test shot.

Tharn brings his camera up to his face and squints as he looks down the lens. If he weren’t so annoying, Type would almost say the crinkle of his mouth and squished cheeks were cute. 

“Good, that’s good,” Tharn says, pulling down his camera to adjust some of the settings. He pulls it back up in front of his face for a couple more shots, then nods to himself. “Perfect.” 

He’s much more focused for the real thing. His lip chewing is back, his body bending down in all kinds of angles to shoot Type, who for his part, remains casual and loose with the odd smile when he feels like it. 

“Drop your right shoulder just a tiny bit. Eyes soft. Great.” The camera clicks six more times. “A little more lip balm,” Tharn suggests then steps back to flick through the files while he waits. 

“I got it,” his petite manager says.

Type gave the lip balm to Puifai, not wanting the odd shape to show up in his jeans pocket. She rifles through her purse and pulls it out for him. She pulls off the cap and steps forward towards Type, who puckers his lips out for her to apply the balm. She holds his chin in her delicate hands and dots the balm over his lips, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. He smiles at her, and she smiles back, her cheeks blushing. 

Tharn coughs beside them. Type and his manager snap out of their daze and pull away from each other. 

“Sorry,” she giggles. 

Type steps back to the wall, Tharn pulls his camera up once more, and Puifai moves back behind the camera. Type smiles easier than he did before, it feels more natural. Every so often he’ll glance behind at his manager, and his smile gets a little bit bigger. 

Tharn on the other hand seems grumpy. His words are short, his compliments lessen and he sighs almost as much as he did the first day they met.   
Type for a moment wonders what’s wrong with him. Why he’s in a mood so suddenly. Usually, that’s his role. Especially given how hot he is, nothing makes him more short-tempered than heat. Nothing but a certain photographer at least. 

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t care. At least that’s what he tells himself, over and over. Like a mantra. 

Another forty minutes pass and Tharn finally announce they’re done. 

“I’ll get these over to digital,” he says, gesturing to his camera.

“Thank you so much,” Puifai tells him. “That was so easy. Both of you were so...in tune.” 

“It’s always easy when you’re shooting someone this handsome,” Tharn smirks. But it’s not how it usually looks. It’s cocky, yes, but it’s not amused. “I’ll email you when I’ve narrowed these down. You can both look them over and decide what you want to go with.” 

“Thanks, Tharn. You’re my hero.”

Tharn smiles, “I’ll see you guys,” he says and turns on his heels to walk away back towards the office.

Type leans against the blue wall, the smell of jasmine and Puifai’s perfume hitting the air as the warm breeze blows past them. He thinks he prefers Tharn’s cologne. 

* * *

It’s been a few days. Type has attended two castings and a reshoot with the makeup brand he’s a sponsor for. Puifai joins him and stands behind the digital monitor, occasionally chatting with the photographer but not getting in the way. 

Despite Type’s earlier reservations, she is a perfect match for him as his manager. She listens to what he wants, she doesn’t suggest going for shoots he isn’t interested in, she’s forceful with brands when she needs to be, and she voices concerns before he even has to. She even apologizes profusely when she calls him at six in the morning to meet her at the office to look over the headshots that are ready.

Type drags himself out of bed and showers. He dresses in the first pair of jeans he finds on his floor -they smell okay, he checked- and a black t-shirt from his closet. He runs a towel roughly over his damp hair but doesn’t bother doing much else to it. Hit helmet will only ruin what he attempts. He pats a little tinted moisturizer on his face and rubs SPF over his arms and neck. 

After a quick breakfast of toast and green tea, he locks his condo and heads down the elevator to the parking lot, his helmet hooked on his arm. His father would go ballistic if he knew his son went out on his bike without full leathers, but its barely seven and it’s already unbearably hot so he foregoes the potential of heatstroke and starts up his baby, taking every quiet backroad he knows just to be on the safe side. 

He pulls up at the office twenty minutes later and sees a familiar white Lexus already in the parking lot. He parks his bike next to it because it’s the next empty spot and it just makes sense. He locks his helmet in the trunk, shoves his keys in his pocket and heads inside the building. 

“Good morning,” Puifai waves, waiting just inside the lobby for him. “I’m so sorry to call you in so early, I know today was your only late morning.” She reaches to put a hand on his shoulder and he dodges it. “I just wanted to get these headshots out to the brands as soon as possible,” she continues, not noticing the step he takes away from her.

“No problem,” Type smiles. 

They head up in the elevator together, Puifai pushing the buttons, Type leaning against the handrail and tapping his foot. She leads him to her office, greeting a few members of staff on her way past, though not many people are around this early so the corridors are mostly empty.

Type doesn’t realize he’s glancing around every corner as they walk through the halls, looking for a familiar face. Tharn must be in his office, Type surmises. 

Puifai lets them inside her office, it’s bare, hardly any personalization, a little sad and uninspiring. She pulls up an extra chair next to hers at her desk and Type takes a seat, arms inside the walls of the armchair. 

They flick through the images of him and the jasmine, some of him smiling, others of him looking pensive, the occasional one where his eyes aren’t meeting the camera and he’d clearly been caught off guard. Oddly, those are the best. 

Puifai likes him smiling, Type likes the ones that are more natural. After some back and forth, they compromise by choosing one of each and one full body shot. Type is reasonably happy with using them in his portfolio and gives her the go-ahead. 

He excuses himself when he can no longer ignore the green tea from breakfast torturing his bladder. 

Type heads to the men’s restroom down the hall, unbuckling his belt and rushing to first the wall hanging urinal, audibly groaning at the relief. He only sees the person standing at the sinks when he’s finished and doing up his pants. 

“Oh, hey,” he says, greeting the photographer. It’s only polite. “What the hell are you doing?” Type asks when he realizes Tharn isn’t washing his hands at the sink like a normal person, he’s bending and twisting in front of the mirror with some sort of goop in his hand. He’s also shirtless and a lot more muscular than Type would have given him credit for. 

“Aloe,” Tharn answers, gesturing to the clear blue slime on his fingers. 

Type looks at him, really looks. His torso and upper arms are pale and smooth. Defined lightly with muscle. Abs poking above his GG belt. But the skin on his arms, from the middle of his biceps down to his wrists is red raw with sunburn. The back of his neck is much the same, the tips of his ears are peeling. It looks painful. Sounds it too if Tharn’s quiet hisses are anything to go by. 

“When did you get burned?” _Idiot_ , the model adds in his own head. 

“The other day, shooting you.” Tharn isn’t looking at him, his focus on awkwardly trying to slather the aloe on his tender skin. “No big deal,” he says, all too casual.

Now Type thinks about it, Tharn made sure he remained in the shade, shielded by the wall and the jasmine, often insisted on him drinking water and taking five minutes if he needed a break to cool off. Tharn, on the other hand, had been bending, standing, wandering in the full sun to get the shots he wanted. 

Type shouldn’t feel guilty. He shouldn’t. It’s Tharn’s stupid fault. Who doesn’t wear sun protection this time of year? Tharn is a grown man and should take full responsibility. 

“Ah,” he gasps, catching a particularly dark spot under his hairline. 

“For fuck sake.” Type stands to the sink to wash his hands, a little more thoroughly than he normally would. Then he grabs the bottle of ointment from Tharn and squeezes a generous amount into his palm. “Turn around,” he orders.

“It’s fine, I’m almost d-”

“Shut up, and turn around.” With his non-gooped hand, Type grabs the photographer's shoulder and forces him to face the wall. 

Though he would take great pleasure in prodding, poking, and making Tharn as uncomfortable as humanly possible, Type keeps his touch light. He smooths over a generous amount of the aloe onto the back of Tharn’s neck, not caring too much about getting it in his hair. If the jerk complains, he can do it himself next time. 

Tharn’s skin is...hot. Not in the seductive sense, but the literal one. It’s burning and stiff and feels like leather left out in the heat too long. Type makes sure to apply a thick layer. 

“Turn back,” he instructs Tharn when he’s finished the back of his neck and around his ears.

Tharn turns to face him, Type half expects a smirk and for Tharn to be enjoying this, but apparently not. He looks like hell. 

Type inspects his arms, the skin on the underside is pink but not too bad, the tops of his biceps where the sun hit him the most are a different story, skin deep red and blistered. And no matter how gentle Type is, Tharn twitches, hisses and is all but vibrating by the time Type has finished slathering all of him. 

“T-thank you.” 

Type should ask him if he’s okay. He looks the personification of not okay. But he should ask regardless. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” _Close enough_ , he thinks.

“I work here?” Tharn answers tiredly. 

Type rolls his eyes. “I’ll rephrase, asshole. Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Your manager wanted the headshots,” he sighs. “She’s quite insistent.”

Type doesn’t understand what the rush would be. Surely Puifai wouldn’t be that insistent. What’s another day or two?

“Why didn’t you just tell her you were sick or something?” 

“She said it had to be today.” Tharn picks up his shirt from the countertop. “Besides, I didn’t think you cared.” He gingerly pushes his arms through the sleeves, face contorted in pain as the fabric drags on his skin despite the barrier of aloe. 

“Isn’t snarky sinister brat my thing?” 

“Type, I’m tired,” Tharn says. “Can we do this dance another time?” 

“Dance?”

“ _Type_ ,” Tharn all but begs. 

“Alright. Whatever.” Type washes his hands and hands him back the bottle of aloe. He makes a mental note to check on Tharn later. Hopefully, the idiot will have already gone home by then.

Maybe Type does care a little. 

Only a little.

* * *

  
Tharn doesn’t go home.

Type busies himself with admin work he’s been putting off for weeks for the rest of the morning. He lets himself into the photographer's office around lunchtime to ask if he wants anything from the deli place across the street. 

His words die on his lips when he opens the door to find the older man passed out over his desk, his body at an angle that can’t be comfortable to sleep in. He closes the door behind himself and closes the gap between them when he hears a faint wheezing. Either the computer is having a bad day, or the photographer most definitely is. 

“Hey, hey. Asshole, wake up, hey.” Type shakes his shoulder, the skin burning hot under his palm, sweat pouring from the photographer, his hair sodden and dripping. “Shit,” he curses to himself. 

Tharn groans, forehead creasing in confusion as he blinks his exhausted eyes open. 

“Hey, Tharn. Wake up. Hey, do you need a doctor?” 

Should Type call 911?

“No,” Tharn whispers. “M’fine.” 

“You’re not fine, idiot. Pretty sure you have heat exhaustion.” 

Type had it once when he was a teenager. Not a pleasant memory for anyone involved. He spent a whole day on a ladder fixing the roof for his dad. And the next two throwing up unable to get out of bed.

Tharn falls back to sleep, head resting on his desk, arms dangling by his sides, his breath coming out in short pants. Type drags a hand through his hair, wondering what the hell he should do now. 

He paces the office, weighing up his options. The easiest thing would be to call an ambulance and abandon ship when the paramedics arrive with his good Samaritans badge still intact. But that seems a bit excessive given the best thing Tharn could probably use right now is a comfy bed and rest. He should get someone to take Tharn home, that seems about reasonable. 

Type pulls his phone from his jeans pocket and calls Techno. 

_“Hey, buddy. What’s up?”_ his friend answers cheerily.

“Do you know where Tharn lives?” Type asks, straight to the point. 

_“The photographer? No. No idea. Why?”_

“He’s...sick. Someone should take him home.” 

_“Can’t you do it?”_

“Why me?” Type grumbles.

_“You guys are friends aren’t you?”_

“What?” Type looks over at Tharn’s sleeping form. “Where did you get that idea?” 

_“He turned down the job in America for you, didn’t he?”_

“What?” 

_“Yeah, I heard one of the reception girls talking. Apparently, it was this big-time job offer, once in a lifetime type stuff, and the day before he was supposed to leave he retracted his resignation. He even took a pay cut.”_

The jerk said he lost the job, not that he turned it down. 

“What does that have to do with me?” the model asks.

_“Get this, a different reception girl hit on him the day he came back, something about tasting her cherry. His reply, and I quote, ‘Sorry, but I prefer whipped cream.’ Dude, you are totally the whipped cream.”_

“You’re delusional.” 

_“Maybe. But I’m right.”_

Type paces the office again. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

_“I don’t know, let him take you out to dinner?”_

“Not that!” he shouts, making Tharn jump in his sleep. Type lowers his voice. “This, here, now. How do I get this idiot home? He’s passed out and I have no idea where he lives.”

_“Just take him to your place for the night.”_

“Why would I do that?” His friend is insane.

_“Did you miss the part about him turning down a huge job in America for you?”_

“I barely know him. He’s everything I hate. He fucking infuriates me.” 

_“Sounds like a schoolboy crush to me.”_

“Techno, please just come and help m-”

 _“Sorry buddy, deliveries are here, duty calls,”_ Techno cuts him off before he can finish his sentence. _“Talk to you later.”_

“Techno, ‘No, ‘No. You little fucker.” Type grinds his teeth and muffles a scream into the phone. “Fuck.” 

He looks back at the photographer, his breath catches every so many second, his skin twitching in pain even in sleep. It makes Type want to strangle him and his chest ache with sympathy in equal measure. 

“I really hate you,” he tells the unconscious form. Then reluctantly works on finding the man’s car keys in his pocket. It’s not like he can put Tharn on the back of his bike in this state. Besides, he only has one helmet. Though it would serve the photographer right if he ended the day with a cracked skull.


	5. Chapter 5

Tharn is asleep on his bed. Type blinks. Tharn is asleep. On his _bed_. 

Tharn. 

Cocky. Arrogant. Not his friend, Tharn. 

Sleeping.

Completely unconscious.

_In his bed._

No matter how many times Type repeats it to himself it still seems ridiculous. Even as he stares down at the tangled form from the foot of his bed. It’s completely and utterly ridiculous. 

Type scratches the back of his head and huffs. He should probably replace the damp cloth on Tharn’s forehead and prod him awake to drink some more and maybe take a few pills. 

He called his mother when the internet became a bombardment of confusion and too much information. She gave him strict orders to apply a cold compress, give his ‘friend’ plenty of fluids and to watch him carefully for any signs of heatstroke. She even suggested a sponge bath but no way in heaven or hell is Type bathing Tharn. 

Not. A. Chance.

“Hey, dick. Wake up, you need to drink.” 

Type shakes his shoulder and takes away the warm cloth, dipping it in the bowl of water he set on his bedside table and wringing it out to lay on Tharn’s chest. At least he’s breathing better than he had been in the office, and to his credit, he hasn’t argued or put up any kind of fight. 

“Whu?” Tharn grumbles, swatting away the voice disturbing him from sleep. 

“Wake up.” Type picks up the fresh glass of water he also put on his side table and shakes out two pain pills from the bottle next to the bowl. “Unless you want me to pour the contents of this glass on your head.” 

Tharn mumbles something unintelligible and probably unhelpful. Type helps him to drink, take the medicine, he replaces the fallen cold compress and comes to the conclusion that he’d make a terrible nurse.

“You better be fucking well by tomorrow because I’m not doing this two days running.” 

Tharn mumbles something again. His shaky voice sounding close to tears. 

Type leans in closer. “What?”

“You let her…” Tharn whispers, words slurred.

“Let who do what?”   
  
“She touched your lips and you let her…” Tharn says. “You weren’t afraid of her...her touch. You weren’t scared like I scare you.”

Type’s mouth feels dry.

“I’m sorry...I’m so sorry I scare you.”

He feels his hands start to shake. Familiar panic crawling up his throat. Anger bubbling through his veins. How can he be angry at someone delirious? How can he want to scream at someone who doesn’t know what they’re saying? 

“Stop talking. You’re embarrassing yourself,” Type tells him. 

He reaches out. His fingers catching the ends of Tharn’s damp fringe, brushing his hair back away from his forehead. He lets his hand trail down the side of Tharn’s face, rough stubble scratching against his skin as he cups the man’s cheek. 

“What the hell am I doing?” he asks himself but doesn’t pull away.

Eventually, he leaves the bedroom and plays video games in his living room with the volume low until he gets bored and makes himself dinner. After a quick shower and one last check on Tharn who is exactly where he left him, Type clicks off all but the bathroom light settles himself down on his sofa for the night. 

The next morning, he wakes to an empty apartment and a note on his coffee table. 

_**‘Thank you.’** _

* * *

Tharn doesn’t come back to work for the rest of the week. Type knows because he’s at the office almost every day himself at Puifai’s insistence. She makes him come in before he starts a shoot to sign some mundane papers, asks him to stop by on his way home to give his approval on the final final versions of his new headshots. And one day she even persuades him to stop by to give his opinion on the photo frames for her office wall. 

Type isn’t sure if he’s being overly sensitive or if she is starting to become overbearing. 

He ignores the paranoid voice in his head and pushes it to the back of his mind. It’s a new week, and it’s Fashion Week soon, which means his life is about to get thrown into a blender of chaos, zero sleep, and an unbearable amount of stress. He doesn’t have room for anything in his life to go awry. Least of all, a bike that refuses to start. 

“Shit,” he cusses, almost certain it’s the battery. He stupidly forgot to turn the lights off when he got home the night before, and he doesn’t have time to recharge it now before his casting. 

He should call Puifai, she has a car, a nice one, and she’ll be more than happy to come pick him up. Would even probably insist on going with him to the casting itself so she can experience it first hand to better aid him in the future.

“Fuck that,” he grumbles and opens up LINE messenger. 

**You busy?** He types to the person who owes him big time. 

_**About to leave for work. Everything okay?**_ Tharn responds almost instantly.

**Can you give me a ride to my casting? Bikes dead.**

_**Sure. Give me ten minutes?** _

Tharn arrives in seven. His white Lexus pulling in front of Type’s condo building, his stupid face all too happy to see Type. 

“Hey. Everything okay?” he asks when Type lets himself in the passenger seat and dumps his bag on the back seat.

“Fucking battery. I’ll fix it when I get home.” He pulls across his seatbelt and snaps it in place. “Here’s the address,” he hands Tharn the sheet Puifai handed to him last Friday for the casting calls he needs to attend for Fashion Week. 

“Sure, I know this building.” Tharn pulls out of the parking lot and out onto the road, turning left at the lights to join the waiting traffic. 

Type glances a look over him while he’s otherwise distracted with driving. He seems better than the last time Type had seen him. His arms make him look like a molting reptile, peeling and scabby, but decidedly less redraw. His face is no longer clammy and pale, his eyes no longer blurred and glassy with delirium. 

Type feels a small weight lift from his chest, something akin to relief. 

“You look better,” he comments, feigning casual.

“I have your nursing skills to thank,” Tharn says, making a right turn when the lights turn green. 

“I didn’t do much,” Type shrugs.

“In any case, thank you. Just let me know what I owe you for the medication and the laundry.” 

“Let me off the gas bill for this ride and we’ll call it even.” 

Tharn chuckles. “Sure. Does this make us friends now?”

“Whatever.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tharn grins, turning left. 

“Take it how you want it, asshole.” 

Tharn laughs again, and they spend the rest of the car journey in relative silence, but it’s not awkward, it’s...nice. When they pull up outside the casting building and Type gets out, Tharn winds the window down and leans across the seat.

“I’ll go find a parking spot, give me a call when you’re done?” 

“I’ll just take a taxi to the next one,” Type tells him, bending down to the car window. 

“It’s no problem, I don’t mind.” 

“Don’t you have to get to work?” Type sniggers. 

“It’ll be there after lunch or tomorrow.”

“Fucking slacker.” 

“You’re going to be late,” Tharn raises his eyebrows, tapping his watch.

Type looks at his own, “Shit,” he says and takes off in a half jog, half sprint. Tharn’s laughter in the background, fading as he moves further away.

His casting is relatively quick and goes as well as can be expected. He scores his first runway show of the year for Fashion Week and leaves the building with a spring in his step. 

The white Lexus is waiting front and center outside the building, Tharn smiles when he sees Type. 

“Where to next?” the photographer asks when Type gets in the car. 

“Aren’t you even going to ask if I got it?”

“I know you got it,” Tharn smirks knowingly. “You’re smiling like a psycho.” 

Type flicks his peeling ear. “Fuck you.”

“Ow,” Tharn whines. “That hurts.”

“Good.” 

“Ungrateful brat.” 

“Dick.”

Tharn sighs, shaking his head as he pulls away from the curb, but he’s smiling. And so is Type. 

This is their thing now, Type thinks to himself. Whatever this is, it’s theirs.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite his vow to never drink with Techno ever again, Type finds himself sat opposite his friend in the office cafeteria, not exactly arguing when the mention of visiting the new bar in town comes up. 

“Free shots with every beer, how can you say no to that?” his friend grins, chowing down on his baguette sandwich. 

Type has a hectic few weeks coming up and he’ll have zero time to even breathe when Fashion Week comes around. Let alone socialize. A bar is a good excuse to loosen himself up before the crazy begins, so he doesn’t fight too hard when Techno twists his arm. 

“Fine,” Type grumbles. “But if you even think about sending another LINE video of me to Tharn, I will kill you.” Type isn’t even joking a tiny bit.

“Hey, check you out,” Techno mumbles, mouth full of food. It’s disgusting and Type throws his straw wrapper at him. “You’re calling him by his name. Haven’t you progressed my fine sir.” 

“What are you talking about?”

Techno swallows. “You always say ‘that guy’ or ‘asshole’ when you talk about him. You’re growing. I’m proud of you.”

“Shut up,” Type mumbles into his milkshake. He is most definitely not blushing. It’s just warm in here.

“What’s the deal with you guys, anyway?” 

“What do you mean?” Type pulls out a tomato from Techno’s sandwich and chews at the edges. 

“He got here and you basically hated him on the spot. There were rumors you guys had a huge argument and you punched him, people said he moped around the office for days. Then you took him to your place to take care of him while he was sick.”

“You told me to!” Type shouts, not realizing how loud the words would come out. “Uh, sorry,” he mumbles to the people around. 

Techno is laughing into his lunch and Type kicks him under the table.

His friend whines and rubs his shin. 

“There’s nothing,” Type insists. “He just rubbed me up the wrong way.” 

“Past tense?” Techno raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, maybe I misjudged him and he’s not that bad.”

“See, progress.” Techno finishes his food and wipes his hands on his napkin. “But don’t worry, accidental drunken videos won’t be a problem, I’ve invited him to join us,” Techno beams. 

Type chokes and spits out his drink, soaking his friend.

Techno blinks, liquid even on his eyelashes. “Thanks, buddy. Thank you,” he grimaces.

He deserves it. 

* * *

  
Type doesn’t know what to wear. 

Usually, he spends his life not caring about his wardrobe. It’s not his job to dress well, it’s someone else’s job to make him look like he does. 

At this moment in time, however, it’s an entirely different story. 

He rifles through his drawers, his closet, even his hamper, slowly losing his mind. He tries on every pair of jeans he owns, all of them have rips or frayed edges, deliberate mind you, but they make him look like the budget male version of Cinderella, pre-fair godmother. All of his t-shirts are oversized, just how he likes them, so why do they suddenly make him look like a boy borrowing his dads’ clothes? His shoe collection is even more hopeless. He owns three pairs in total, sneakers for the gym, a suede pair of pumps for day to day, and a pair of stiff black dress shoes for special occasions. 

Nothing looks right, nothing fits how he wants it to, it’s all boring, and everything is a disaster. 

_“Stop yelling at me, just pick something so I can hang up,”_ Techno stresses over Facetime. 

“But everything looks stupid!”

_“That’s never bothered you before.”_

“I’m not fucking going,” Type whines, throwing his black t-shirt on the floor. 

_“Yes, you are. What about the blue one?”_

“It’s too big,” he grumbles. 

_“Then wear a jacket?”_

“It’s too hot.” 

_“So big is good, it won’t stick to you. Please, buddy, I’ve been looking forward to this all week. Don’t let me down.”_

Type feels a pang of guilt. He’s canceled before. For different reasons. Never really able to give an explanation. Never really wanting to. Techno never pries though. He picks up on things, of course, he does, he’s not stupid. He sees Type flinch when strangers come near him, he sees his fingers tremble on bad days, he knows not to put his arm around his shoulders buddy-buddy style because it makes him feel like he’s suffocating. 

“I’ll be twenty minutes,” Type says, picking up his phone from the bed to see Techno’s face light up.

_“I’ll see you there!”_

Type settles on the blue t-shirt, his least ripped jeans, and his usual suede pumps. He grabs his wallet and keys from the bowl by his front door, locks his door behind himself and hopes the night will end in minimal disaster. 

* * *

  
Techno is on his third beer -plus two free shots- while Type is still nursing his second. They’re sat at a high table near the dance floor, music blaring next to them, disco lights beaming, the bar stools seemingly like less and less of a good idea the more Techno drinks. 

His friend is sulking. He found a cute girl to flirt with at the bar, and not thirty seconds after he paid for her drink, she shot him down in flames. Every so many minutes she’ll turn around from her table and giggle with her friends. 

Techno isn’t the only one feeling disappointed. For all his troubles with fretting about his atir, Type needn’t have bothered. The photographer hasn’t shown up, and Type is getting sick of glancing at his watch and checking his phone for any new messages. 

“You know what, I think I’m going to head home,” Techno says, emptying the last of his beer. 

“This was your idea and you’re ditching me?” Type grumbles with no real heat. The girls at the nearby table are starting to get on his last nerve, and if he didn’t have a reputation to uphold, he’d barge over and ask them what their problem was. 

“We could share a cab?” Techno suggests. 

Type shakes his head. “Nah, you go ahead. I’ll finish this first,” he gestures to his partly drunk beer. They live on completely opposite sides of town, and he can tell Techno just wants to be alone. 

Just as his friend slips off his stool, a familiar grin comes into view. His long legs making their way over to their table.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late. How much do I have to catch up on?” 

Tharn is dressed in cropped black pants, a pale blue shirt, white Converse and for once, he isn’t wearing his Gucci belt. It’s Louis Vuitton. His hair is parted slightly, something he never does for the office. Blue disco lights bounce off his cheekbones and the shine on his lips. 

Type wonders if they taste like cherry lip balm. 

“I’m out,” Techno smiles sadly, patting Tharn on the shoulder on his way past. “I’ll see you guys.”

“Send me a message when you get home,” Type tells him. He’s not Techno’s mother, but he does consider himself his guardian at times. His friend can be somewhat of an airhead and it really just helps Type in the long run to be responsible now rather than later. 

“Did I miss something?” Tharn asks, taking Techno’s seat as Type watches his friend’s sad shoulders leave the bar.

“Just Techno’s failed attempts at flirting. He’ll be fine.” 

Type drinks his beer, nerves fluttering in his stomach at the realization that they’re alone. He and Type. Alone. Together. Left to socialize like pleasant human beings. Together. It’s not the first time they’ve done this. Hung out. But it is the first time they haven’t had a solid excuse to be in each other's company. No accidental run-ins, no emergency car rides, no work-related responsibilities. It’s the first time they’re together because they’ve both made a conscious decision to be as such. 

“So, how’ve you been?” Tharn asks, making conversation.

“Fine,” Type answers, then remembers he’s supposed to have manners. “You?”

“Good. The company has asked me to oversee some big promo projects they have planned so things are busy at the office, but at least it’s not boring.”

 _It sounds boring_ , Type thinks to himself. 

“Same again?” Tharn asks, nodding to Type’s now empty beer.

When did that happen so quickly?

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” 

“Be right back,” Tharn smiles, pulling out his wallet. 

Type puts his empty bottle down and watches Tharn leave for the bar. He glances briefly over his shoulder to glare at the women now Techno is gone, but none of them notice. All eyes on Tharn, his narrow waist and broad shoulders. Type has never once claimed the man isn’t good looking. But it’s the first time Type sees just how beautiful the man is, the way he smiles, the ease of his laugh, the spark in his eyes. 

He snorts at the women, remembering the time Tharn told him he was gay. A part of him hopes they’ll try it with him. An even bigger part thinks _hands off, he’s not yours._

“Must be the alcohol,” he tells himself, shaking his head. He fiddles with one of the coasters on the table while he waits for Tharn. It doesn’t take him long to come back with the drinks and take his seat at the table opposite Type. 

“How can you drink that?” the photographer asks, grimacing.

Type swallows back the shot, his eyes watering as the liquid burns his throat. “Whatever, lightweight,” he gasps, his face contorting as the foul taste lingers. “You’re really not drinking?” 

Tharn shakes his head, his hand around his orange juice. “I’m not good with alcohol.”

“You burn stupidly easily, you don’t drink, you have a younger sister I remind you of, anything else I should know about you?” Type questions. 

“I grew up in Bangkok,” Tharn says. “I speak fluent English because my dads half American, I have an older brother as well as a younger sister. I hate sushi and I love dark chocolate. What about you?”

“What about me?”

Tharn smiles. “Tell me about yourself.”

Type sighs, he’s never been good at this. Talking about himself. It’s one of the great things about being a model, people don’t care what you have to say, they just care about what you do.

“My parents have a resort Pa-ngan, it’s where I grew up. No siblings. I hate dark chocolate and I love sushi,” he says briefly. “But that’s just boring stuff.”

“I guess you’re right. But just so you know, nothing is boring to me about you.” 

Type feels the heat creep up the back of his neck and flush his cheeks. 

Tharn chuckles when he notices, “What do you want to know that’s not boring then?”

“Hm…” Type thinks for a moment, he can feel the sour shot fizzing his brain. “How’d you know you were gay?” 

Tharn blinks, the question not at all what he was expecting, judging by the look on his face. Type wasn’t expecting it either, but he said it and there’s no going back now.

“I had a crush on a senior when I was in high school,” Type explains quietly. “I was confused at first, but when he gave me one hell of a handjob in the music room, I knew I could never feel that with a woman.” 

“Makes sense,” Type mumbles, sipping his beer, leaving the neck of the bottle pressed against his lips for longer than necessary. “So you’ve really never been with a woman?”

“I have. Nothing happened. Not even a twitch.” Tharn flicks the hair out of his eyes, a soft smile spreading across his lips. “Can I ask you something?”

Type nods, it’s only fair. 

“Do you still hate me for that day?” 

That day. That fight. Those hands. The lips so close to his.

“No,” Type answers honestly. “I forgive you.” 

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t about you,” he says, the alcohol loosening his lips. “I can hate you for a lot of things, I can’t hate you for something that’s in me.” 

“Why _do_ you hate me?” 

Type rolls his eyes. Is this a drinking party or a pity party? “Hate is a strong word, I guess.”

“But I annoy you?” 

“Everyone annoys me.” 

“But I annoy you more than most.”

Type pouts. Is he drunk? “It’s easier than admitting I like you.” He’s definitely drunk. “If I like you, it’ll hurt when you leave.” 

“Who says I’m going anywhere?”

Type shrugs. 

“If you ever need to talk, I’ll listen. Whatever you’re going through, I’m here.” Tharn lets go of his glass and hesitantly puts his hand out. “Can I touch you?”

The model nods. “Please,” he asks. The coolness of Tharn’s hand wraps around his own, the older man smiling softly. “Tharn, why did you lie about losing the job in America?” 

Tharn looks shocked for a moment, but he recovers quickly. “I was afraid you’d run for the hills.”

“Why did you stay?” 

“Isn’t that obvious?” Tharn smirks, eyes twinkling, hand gently caressing the smaller one in his. It feels soothing and it makes Type sleepy. 

“Why do you like me?” Type wonders.

He genuinely does wonder, because the notion baffles him. Tharn has never been subtle about his attraction to Type, but generally speaking, the more a person gets to know him, the less they like until eventually their patience runs out and they’re gone. Type has had relationships, some longer than others, but they all have one thing in common, they end messy. 

“You’re headstrong, you’re determined. You do what you do, you say what you want and you make no apologies,” Tharn says. “You’re also really fucking sexy when you’re angry.” 

Moment ruined, Type growls and kicks his foot out. Without missing a beat, Tharn catches the offending leg in both hands under the table and laughs. 

“Dick,” Type sniggers, right on queue. 

Tharn grins like it’s a compliment. 

It probably is. 

Type blinks and takes a shaky breath. Head spinning. Fingers clammy. Eyes focused on Tharn’s mouth. He timidly leans forward, his chest pushed against the edge of the table, lips slightly parted as he tilts his head, pressing his mouth to Tharn’s. Tharn gaps into the kiss, taken aback. His hands move to hover at Type’s waist but don’t touch. Type places a palm flat on Tharn’s chest, their lips locked, tongues in a tangle. 

Tharn remains restrained, his body firm but not rigid letting Type set the pace until the younger man pulls away, short of breath, pupils wide.

“Okay?” Tharn gasps.

“I think,” Type nods, licking his lips that taste like Tharn. 

“Good.”

Type starts laughing, he can’t help himself. It bursts from his chest and falls from his mouth. 

“What?” Tharn asks, confused, worried. “What’s so funny?”

“Those girls had the hots for you,” he chuckles. “Too bad.”

Tharn laughs also. “Too bad,” he agrees.

“Hey, Tharn?” 

“Hm?” 

“I’m drunk. Take me home?” 

Tharn brushes the stray hairs fallen over Type’s forehead and runs his thumb over his wet lips, his touch so delicate like he’s afraid Type might disappear. 

“Okay.” 


	7. Chapter 7

Type wakes the next morning void of pants in a bed that’s not his own. He’d like to say the night before is a blur and how he got here is a mystery, but that would be a lie. He wasn’t that drunk, and he doesn’t even have a headache. 

He rubs his eyes and scratches the back of his head, his stomach growling when the smell of breakfast hits him. Unceremoniously, Type drags himself out of bed, forgoing his crumpled jeans on the floor, and following his nose out of the room towards the kitchen, barefoot, dressed only his t-shirt and boxers.

“Morning,” Tharn says from the stove. “Did you sleep well?”

“Sure,” Type says. 

“I hope you like eggs.”

“Mh, sure,” he repeats, his voice still thick with sleep, hair sticking up at all angles.

“How are you feeling?” 

“Fine.” Type pulls out a chair at the small table in the corner and watches Tharn multitask. He’d offer to help but he’s a guest and a terrible cook so he remains seated and lets his eyes fall around the room.

“You don’t have any horrifying regrets about last night?”

“You mean the fact that we kissed?” Type shrugs, it had been different, rougher, Tharn’s stubble scratching against his cheek, but he’s perfectly fine with it.

“Actually, you kissed me, but, details,” Tharn’s shoulders shrug and Type can all but see the smirk on his smug face. 

“Whatever.” Type isn’t smiling. He’s not. 

“Do you have any plans for today?” Tharn asks, turning to look over his shoulder. 

“Probably just sleep.” It’s unhealthy to binge sleep all weekend but he needs to fill his tank as much as possible in preparation for Monday. Fashion Week is no joke and Type is determined this year to avoid the annual meltdown he has towards the end of it. 

Tharn shakes the pan and flips the omelet, the pan sizzling as the eggs cook. Type wonders if he’s a natural or if he’s just showing off. 

“You’re welcome to hang out here if you want.”

It’s Type’s turn to smirk. “Is that your lame way of asking me to hang out here? Are you flirting, is this flirting?” 

“Asshole,” Tharn says.

“That’s my line.” 

They both chuckle, dancing around each other. It’s awkward but not uncomfortable. Type has never had this. Has never felt like this. The bliss of being vulnerable but not afraid. The feeling of being not in control yet not spiraling out of it. 

Tharn finishes up cooking and serves breakfast, it’s the nicest spread Type has seen since staying with his parents. Two plain omelets, fresh peppers, finely chopped chilies and half a lime set in bowls to the side, fluffy rice, and a cup of dipping sauce in the middle that looks homemade, not out of a bottle. Black coffee for Tharn himself, and chocolate milk with whipped cream for Type. 

Type wonders if Tharn’s sister comes to visit, or if the man bought it for him especially. He doesn’t ask, just squirts a generous amount of cream over the top of his drink and they eat in relative silence. 

Every so often, Type will catch Tharn looking at him, his expression unreadable. 

“What?” he asks with a mouth full of rice. 

“Nothing,” Tharn smiles.

“Stop staring at me, it’s creepy.”

“I like looking at you,” Tharn admits.

“So take a picture,” Type jabs his fork into his omelet. “Then you can look all you want, weirdo.” 

“It’s not as good as the real thing.” 

“Then your photography skills are lacking.” Type kicks him in the knee, “Don’t think I’ll go soft on you because we kissed. Whatever this is, you still annoy the fuck out of me.”

Tharn grumbles, rubbing his sore knee. For a moment Type worries the joke has gone beyond the point of being funny, but it isn’t long before Tharn’s smirk is back in full force and he presses his foot over Type’s under the table.

“Then I’ll annoy you for a long time to come.” 

The butterflies in his stomach flutter, but he doesn’t hate it. 

When they finish breakfast, Tharn says he’s going for a quick shower and Type is welcome to make himself at home. 

Type waits for the bathroom door to click shut, then helps himself to wander around the living room. It’s nice, quaint, with pale green walls, mismatch furniture and a TV that looks older than time in the far corner. There’s a guitar propped up next to the cream sofa that has seen better days and a set of drumsticks on the sideboard, though Type doesn’t see any coordinating drum set. It’s not exactly messy, but comfortably cluttered, and it’s not at all what Type expected given the mans’ immaculate dress and designer belt collection. 

The only thing not a surprise is the photographs hung on almost every blank wall, just like in Tharn’s office. The difference being, these are of himself and presumably his family. Some of the pictures are vacation shots in snow or on a beach, others look like official photoshoots Type imagines Tharn forcing his family into, a few are candid snaps, taken with a polaroid camera. 

Tharn’s sister is younger than Type expected, she looks about ten in one of the pictures where Tharn doesn’t look much younger than he is now. And Tharn’s older brother looks just like him, only more poised, if that’s even possible.

Type frowns at one of the framed pictures above the couch. He guesses its Tharn’s brother's graduation, judging by the dress robes. Tharn has his arm around his brother, a wide grin on both their faces, but the glass in the frame is smashed, the picture inside it folded partly as though Tharn has tried to crop someone out. 

Type reaches out and pulls the photo from the wall, wondering who hurt Tharn enough for him to break the glass, but not rip them out of the picture permanently. 

“I should really get that replaced.” 

Tharn’s voice startles Type. He hadn’t heard him come out of the bathroom. He’s dressed in fresh clothes, a plain t-shirt and loose shorts. His cheeks are flushed from the hot water and his hair is wet and dripping onto the neck of his top. 

“Oh, uh...sorry I just-” Type stammers, trying to explain himself. 

Tharn takes the frame from him and holds it in his hand for a moment, staring down at the picture underneath the cracked glass. His eyes are distant, lost in thought, his mouth turned down and sad. It’s a foreign look on the photographer. Type doesn’t like it, it doesn’t suit him. 

“Someone you used to know?” he asks gingerly.

Tharn sighs. “Someone I should try to forget.” 

A pause, “They hurt you?” Type prompts, leaving the door open if Tharn wants to talk about it. 

“He didn’t mean to.” 

“The end result is still the same though,” Type says. “Does it make it better, to give him an excuse?”

“Some days,” Tharn shrugs, “Other days, it makes me wonder why I wasn’t a good enough reason for him to stay.” He traces a hand over the glass, his breath hitching. “Ah,” he winces, blood bubbling from his finger where the glass cut it.

“Idiot,” Type says, grabbing his finger none too kindly to inspect it and sees a tiny shard of glass embedded in the skin. “Fucking idiot,” he repeats. “Tweezers?” he asks.

“Bathroom cabinet.”

Type chunters under his breath and turns for the bathroom. He opens the cabinet -one of the handles’ needs screwing back on, he’ll offer to fix that sometime- and quickly finds tweezers, bandaids, tissues, and antiseptic solution. 

Back in the living room, Tharn is sat on the couch, the broken photo frame in his lap, bleeding finger hovering out in front of him.

“Do you have some creepy fantasy of me in a nurse's outfit or something?” Type questions, his tone sour but there’s no heat behind it. 

“I do now,” Tharn grins.

The lightheartedness doesn’t last long and his face sinks back into the sadness. He sets the picture aside and Type takes his hand and carefully blots the trickle of blood running down his finger. 

“What happened between you guys?” Type realizes he hasn’t actually seen the person in question, but the look on Tharn’s face tells him he was important. Maybe he still is. 

“We were happy. For two years. And then he was suddenly unhappy. A week or so later, he left.” 

“Just like that?” Type plucks out the glass. 

“Just like that,” Tharn answers, barely flinching.

Type drops the tweezers and glass onto the coffee table, soaks some of the clean tissue in the antiseptic and presses it onto the cut. “Sounds like maybe it wasn’t about you,” he says, giving the mystery man the benefit of the doubt. 

“For better or for worse, that’s what love is. You’re supposed to share, not run away.” 

“Maybe he knew sharing would hurt you more than running away.” 

Type wonders if Tharn watched too many fairy tales growing up. As nice as his fantasy on love is, it’s not reality. Type doesn’t know what happened to Tharn’s ex, but he feels like he understands him more than the photographer. 

“How is he supposed to know that if he doesn’t trust me enough to let me decide on my own?” 

“Like I said, it wasn’t about you. He was probably trying to protect himself,” Tharn explains, a lump forming in his throat as he wraps a bandaid neatly around Tharn’s finger. “Hurting you would make him hurt worse. Self-preservation, sometimes it’s easier to just run.” 

“It’s selfish,” Tharn says. 

“It is,” Type agrees, no denying that. 

His hands are shaking. Why are his hands shaking? 

“But sometimes bad shit happens and we earn the right to be as selfish as we fucking want. Sometimes bad men touch us in places that make us scream and they hurt us and we beg them to stop but they don’t listen,” Type’s words tumble out and he doesn’t stop himself. “They just keep hurting and touching and we scream but we can’t tell anyone because it’ll break them like it broke us so we run. We run from the people that hurt us and we run from the people that love us. Because sometimes it’s all the same and it all hurts.”

His vision is blurry, his heart pounding, his hands trembling. _What just happened?_ A thumb brushes his cheek and he flinches. You don’t touch. You do not. Touch. 

Type feels weight shift next to him, Tharn focused on him completely, delicate hands soothing his tears. Type wonders when he started crying. 

“Type-” 

“Not a word,” Type says. “Don’t say a fucking word. Shut up.” 

He can’t. He can’t take sympathy, pity, sorrow. Whatever Tharn wants to offer, he doesn’t want it. It’ll break him. If he gets it, that’s the end. 

“Okay,” Tharn smiles sadly, brushing the hair from Type’s damp eyes. 

“Shut. Up.”

“Okay,” Tharn’s voice cracks and he cups Type’s cheek. 

“Don’t,” he warns, tears falling. 

“I won’t,” Tharn promises, brushing them away. 

“Don’t you dare run.” Not a warning this time, but a plea. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Gentle hands pull him to lean against a solid chest. 

“He hurt me,” he whispers into the chest.

“I know.”

“He broke me.”

“You’re still here.” Tharn threads his fingers through his hair. “You’re not broken.”

“I feel it,” he sobs. 

“I’ll show you otherwise,” he vows, placing a kiss on the top of Type’s head. Type’s tears fall onto Tharn’s pale t-shirt, staining the fabric. 

“I’m tired,” the younger man says, his body feeling heavy, his eyes drooping.

“So sleep,” arms pull him closer. “I’m not leaving.”

“This is your apartment.” 

“Then I won’t kick you out.” 

“You better not.” Type closes his eyes, a few stray tears falling as he does. 

* * *

Type finds himself at Tharn’s place more often than not.

His apartment is closer to the agency's office, the gym around the corner is better than the one in his condo building, and the streets are quieter so he gets a better nights sleep. All in all, it’s just far more convenient and as things currently stand, the pros outweigh the cons. This is what he tells himself. Each and every time he’s in Tharn’s doorway. And he almost, _almost_ believes it. 

The truth is, he sleeps better in Tharn’s bed because it has Tharn in it, the apartment feels more like home in just a few short months than his own ever has, and there really aren’t any cons to counteract the pros that he can think of. 

He doesn’t complain on the day's Type leaves before dawn and comes back close to midnight. He doesn’t get offended when Type is having a bad day and he’s nothing but snappy. He doesn’t force Type to slow down when he wobbles under stress. He just shoves a neatly packed lunch box into his hand and tells him to remember to drink otherwise he’s confiscating the keys to his bike.

They’re so domesticated it’s sickly. 

“Hey, have you seen my grey t-shirt?” Type asks, poking his head into the living room. 

“Try the bedroom,” Tharn says from the couch, occasionally strumming his guitar. He plays it almost every day, Type finds it relaxing.

“Already did,” Type informs him, but checks again anyway. 

He pulls back the covers, checks under the bed, sifts through varying other items of clothing strewn around the room, some Tharn’s, some his own...or maybe most of his own. Come to think of it, most of his closet is scattered around Tharn’s apartment. As are most of his bike tools. There’s even an entire shelf in the bathroom dedicated to just his products. 

“Shit,” Type cusses. He even has a key to Tharn’s apartment on his keychain. “You fucking asshole!” he shouts, marching into the living room. 

“What? What did I do?” Tharn questions, utterly baffled.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me we’d moved in together?” Type demands. 

“I wasn’t aware we had?” Tharn slowly puts down his guitar and stands to place his hands on Type’s shoulders. “Is everything okay?”

“No, no! It’s not, you dick. All my stuff is here!”

Tharn rubs his shoulders. “I can help you pack it up?” 

“I don’t want to,” Type says, crossing his arms in a huff. 

“So do you want to move in?” 

“That’s how you’re going to ask me? That’s fucking pathetic.”

“You’re swearing a lot today. I kind of like it,” Than smirks. “Angry sex and we pick this up later?” 

“I hate you.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Fuck,” Type rolls his eyes. “ _Yes_.” 

Tharn grins, “I love you.”

“Shut up. Dick.” 


End file.
